


these bruises make for better conversation

by ladyofthewells



Series: i know that hearts can change (like the seasons and the wind) [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 10:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthewells/pseuds/ladyofthewells
Summary: Nadir Khan, Daroga of Mazanderan, receives a letter from Gerard Carriere, former manager of the Paris Opera. He and his best friend for the last decade set off for the Palais Garnier, and what they find there is not what he left behind.





	these bruises make for better conversation

**Author's Note:**

> The "Graphic Descriptions of Violence" tag is because Erik does still get shot in this like he does in the TV miniseries, and there is some blood.
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen the TV miniseries, Raoul is called Philippe in it, and is (though he is still recognizably Raoul) a slightly different character. I've followed their lead in that, though he has a bit of ALW!Raoul (not LND though) and Leroux!Raoul in him.
> 
> THIS IS NOT THE LAST PART OF THE SERIES.

_These bruises make for better conversation_  
Loses the vibe that separates  
It's good to let you in again  
You're not alone in how you've been  
Everybody loses, we all got bruises  
We all got bruises 

-Train (ft. Ashley Monroe), “Bruises”

“Nadir?” asks someone from the doorway ( _a woman’s voice, a smoky, dark alto, the A string on a viola_ ), and Nadir stretches languidly, twisting to see her.

“Rookheeya!” he says happily, and jumps up to hug her. She laughs and hugs him back, putting down her wicker basket, all sweet easy affection. “You’re back!”

“Congratulations on your observatory skills, Nadir,” she deadpans. “They’ve really improved.”

A grin crinkles the skin around his mouth. “Thank you, darling.”

(Five-sixths of Mazenderan is firmly convinced that they are in deep, romantic love and is just waiting for them to announce the engagement. The other sixth is in love with one or the other anyway and is desperately hoping they’re _not_ together.)

She snorts and pulls away, setting her basket on Nadir’s desk among the neat stacks of papers. “Don’t start.”

Nadir follows her over to the desk and sits on it, swinging his legs like a child. “Anything good?”

“Get off the desk, you barbarian,” she says affectionately, giving him a little shove ( _laugh lines crinkling the dark skin around her mouth as she smiles at him_ ). He grins again and plops down onto the chair. “There’s a letter for you.”

“Really?” Nadir perks up, interested. “From whom?”

“Read it yourself,” and she drops a letter on his lap.

“Thank you,” he says automatically, and turns the letter over to carefully open it. 

It is, indeed, addressed to Nadir Khan, Daroga of Mazenderan. The handwriting is neat and small, almost chunky. It’s several pages long, and Nadir unfolds it curiously.

“French,” he says for Rookheeya’s benefit when he sees that it is, indeed, written in French.

_Monsieur Khan_ , the letter begins. _I hope you are well. I am writing this letter in the hope that you still remember me, for it has been more than ten years since we last spoke, and we have written no letters in that intervening time._

Nadir is getting a foreboding sense he knows who this letter is from. He pulls out the last page and checks the bottom- sure enough, _Your Obt. Servant, Gerard Carriere._

Oh, _hell_.

Rookheeya must have seen something on his face, because she asks from his right ( _there’s a comfortable armchair there he had put in especially for her_ ) “Bad news?”

“It’s from Gerard,” he answers, still stunned.

“Gerard?”

“Gerard Carriere,” and her eyebrows rise. 

“The manager of the Paris Opera?”

“Yes.”

“Is it about the one you told me about? Your boy?”

_Mine_ , Nadir thinks, testing the word out. It fits, strangely enough. 

“It could be,” Nadir finally says in answer to her question.

She nods. “Read it aloud, then.”

_Okay_ , he thinks, and starts. Rookheeya knows French, so he doesn’t have to translate, thank Allah.

“ _Monsieur Khan,_

_I hope that you are well. I am writing this letter in the hope that you still remember me, for it has been more than ten years since we last spoke, and we have written no letters in that intervening time._

_I had refrained from contacting you previously, but I believe now it is time, and I can delay this conversation no longer. There is trouble at the Paris Opera, and Erik is in the midst of it, and I fear this will not end well for anyone involved._

_Anyhow, on to the story. A few months ago, news came that I had been let go- there was to be new management at the Opera. Apparently that same day a young recently-orphaned girl came to the Opera. She said that she had been sent by the Comte du Chagny, a powerful patron of the Opera’s, to receive singing lessons. The new director, Choletti, and his wife Carlotta, denied her lessons, but ended up giving her a position in the costume department for the simple reason that they did not want to anger the Comte and possible lose his money. Since she had nowhere to stay, the doorman, Jean-Claude, a kind man, let her stay in one of the chambers in the first cellar._

_Carlotta planned to run the Opera as well as be its lead soprano. Unfortunately, she can’t sing. She had sent Joseph Buquet, her costume manager down into the cellars to take inventory of all the props and sets there, despite the warnings given by all of the staff that had been there longer than a few months that that was the Phantom’s territory._

_Buquet never returned. He was killed, by Erik, for invading his inner sanctum without permission and for possibly seeing him without the mask._

_This last was told to me by Erik when I went to give him the news of my dismissal. He expressed despair, for if I was leaving the Opera, the likelihood that the entire city of Paris would turn on him to hunt him down-_ ”

And here Nadir pauses. He remembers a conversation he had ten years ago, and is suddenly, desperately afraid of what things are happening, _have happened already_ , at the Paris Opera.

( _I can’t let them find me, I can’t let them hunt me down like an animal, can’t let them put my body on display, no matter whether they’d kill me first or not, and they would, Nadir, they call me a ghost and a phantom and a monster and maybe they’re right about that last one, but if they find out that I’m human they will not let me go free-_ )

Oh, _Allah_.

“Nadir?” Rookheeya asks, concerned, when he doesn’t continue reading.

“Just…” Nadir swallows down the bile that is rapidly rising in his throat. “Just remembering a conversation I had.”

She nods, but her dark brown eyes are still concerned, and Nadir knows she’s going to quiz him about this later- possibly as soon as he’s finished reading the letter.

He swallows again, and picks up where he left off. “ _He expressed despair, for if I was leaving the Opera, the likelihood that the entire city of Paris would turn on him to hunt him down was greatly increased. The new managers did not believe in ghosts and phantoms. We spoke for a while longer, and then I took my leave. I then fabricated a letter of resignation from Buquet to Carlotta, so that they would not go looking in the catacombs._

I do not know exactly what occurred in the next few months. Carlotta attempted to sing on stage twice, and each time something happened; once her wig started itching horribly during her entrance in ‘Norma’ and she tore it off in front of the entire audience; the second time a champagne glass was glued to the tray during Act I of ‘La traviata.’ It is very likely, I think you will agree, that Erik was behind both of these incidents; after all, Carlotta is a less than wonderful singer, and Erik does love his music.

At any rate, the Comte returned from a business trip a few days after the botched performance of ‘Norma’ and invited the entire cast out for a night at the nearby bistro, with Christine, the orphan girl, as his date. He invited me as well to hear Christine sing- it is, after all, the custom for everyone to sing who is capable (and a few that aren’t) when at the bistro. Christine’s voice is remarkable, and she had clearly been taught to sing by someone. Her technique reminded me of Erik’s, and I became certain that he had, and is most likely continuing to teach her.

When he heard her sing, Choletti immediately wrote up a contract, and planned to give her the role of Marguerite in the next performance of Gounod’s Faust _, which I believe you know rather well._ ”

There Nadir stops again. _Faust_. The opera that had brought him and Erik together. _Their_ opera.

When Rookheeya gives him a Look he looks fittingly apologetic in reply and continues to read. “ _That night, Christine and the Comte left together. They are very clearly in love, and will most likely be engaged soon._

And here I come to my point- I hope that you, Nadir Khan, will return to Paris as soon as possible and visit us here at the Opera. Erik had been growing more distant from me, but he loved you, and I believe still does. You can stop this from turning into a disaster. Please come, Nadir, and talk to him. I fear otherwise this will only end in heartbreak or death, for Erik now loves Christine too, though I believe it is the love a father holds for his child and a brother for a sister, not the kind of love you and him shared.

_Please._

_Your Obt. Servant,_

_Gerard Carriere._ ”

There is silence in that room for a few long minutes. “Nadir,” Rookheeya finally says softly. “Do you want to go?”

“I-” Nadir cuts himself off. “I have responsibilities.”

“That isn’t what I asked, Nadir,” she says, a hint of steel showing through. “Do you want to go?”

“I- of _course_ I do- I never wanted to leave him. But I can’t- what about my _responsibilities_?”

“Your second-in-command can take care of things here for a few months. They can do without you, and we’re close enough to France here that we can be back within a week if they need us.”

“But- wait, _us_?”

“Yes,” Rookheeya says calmly. “I’m going with you. You know I love architecture, and the Palais Garnier is rumored to be a glorious example of it. Besides, I’m not letting you go alone to something like that, you’ll just get yourself in trouble.”

“Thanks,” Nadir says sarcastically, but he’s grinning like an idiot. He’s going to get to see Erik again, and Rookheeya’s coming with him. 

Allah, he hopes Gerard’s wrong and nothing bad is going to happen.

-

They arrive in France four days later, and head towards the Opera- it’s not that late yet, even though it’s dark out, and there might even be people around other than Erik. 

And then a ripple runs through the people walking or standing on the sidewalk, news traveling through them quicker that electricity along one of those new cables. Nadir catches the words ‘ _Christine Daae_ ’ and ‘ _the Phantom of the Opera_ ’ on everyone’s tongues. Suddenly the entire mood of the crowd changes. There’s people looking scared, people angry, people herding their children home. 

“Rookheeya,” he says under his breath, nudging his horse closer to hers. “Do you-”

“Go,” she says, taking the lead line of the other horse out of his hand ( _both of them have two horses, one with the luggage and one carrying them. They came alone, apart from that._ ) “Try not to get hurt.”

“Are you- will you be-”

“I’ll follow you to the Opera with the packhorses. Go!”

He flashes a smile at her, one that says _thank you_ and _be careful_ and _thank Allah I met you_ and _I don’t deserve you_ all at once, and then he nudges his horse into a gallop, quietly thanking Allah that the streets are relatively clear. 

Then the façade of the Palais Garnier looms above him, opulent and elegant, with light spilling out of every window and figures moving on the roof. Nadir feels something tighten in his gut, and he gallops down to the stables, quickly tying up the horse in one of the stalls, thankfully the stables are still organized exactly as they were. He races inside the front doors, glimpsing the sign proclaiming loudly that tonight’s opera will be FAUST with CHRISTINE DAAÉ in the role of MARGUERITE.

Up the Grand Escalier, into the auditorium where there is nothing but chaos, the set for the prison scene in Act V in disarray and the audience huddling in clumps talking, some rather hysterically. Nadir runs down the clearer aisle, scrambles across the empty orchestra pit where the music stands still hold the scores, and vaults onto the stage.

“Monsieur,” he gasps to the policeman ( _oh, Allah, Erik, what have you done_ ) “I must insist you let me pass.”

The policeman eyes him suspiciously, and Nadir says quickly “I am a personal friend of both Christine Daaé and the Comte, and I know how to handle myself in a delicate situation. Please let me pass.”

One last suspicious look, but the policeman sighs and steps out of the way. Nadir gives him a nod of thanks, and full-out sprints towards the stairs to the roof. When he reaches the top he carefully opens the door to see more policemen, all with pistols in hand. A young girl in Marguerite’s white nightgown is standing next to a nobleman (presumably the Comte du Chagny), his hand clenched painfully tight in hers. Tears streak her face. That, then, must be Christine Daaé. 

Nadir walks forwards quietly a few more steps, and then he sees what everyone is looking at.

Erik, on the ledge at the base of the dome, black cloak swirling in the strong wind. He’s cut his hair, Nadir notices (irrationally). On another section of roof slightly below and over stands Gerard Carriere, older and grayer but still the same man, small pistol in hand.

A silent question from Gerard, and Erik nods and shrugs, indicating the policemen surrounding him completely. He spreads his arms wide and closes his golden eyes.

The gun rises to point directly at Erik’s heart, and Nadir’s heart jumps into his throat. “No!” he yells, runs forwards until everyone can see him.

The shot still goes off, but Erik ducks it distractedly like Nadir knew he could. Nadir can’t hear him, but his mouth forms Nadir’s name as he spins on the narrow ledge to look over at him.

“Erik,” Nadir breathes. “Are you alright?” he asks, unconsciously echoing the words both Gerard and Erik had asked him over a decade ago.

“You came back,” Erik says, disbelievingly.

Nadir’s heart breaks a little bit at the broken edges in Erik’s eyes. His voice, though, is exactly how Nadir remembers it, a viola perfectly in tune ( _a C string to Rookheeya’s A_ ). “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Everybody lies.”

A step closer, weaving between the policemen still standing with guns out. “Not this time.”

Erik stares at him, and takes a step in his direction, then another.

A smile, soft and heartbroken, finds its way onto Nadir’s mouth. Slowly, they step towards each other, jade-green eyes fixed on molten gold, until they’re close enough that if they both reached out, they would touch-

And then Erik does reach out towards Nadir, and Nadir’s about to reach back when a shot rings out, and everything freezes for a second time.

( _It’s not Gerard’s gun, the wrong angle and the wrong sound, and Nadir is stupidly relieved._ )

Erik stays upright for a single quiet second ( _when you run off a cliff, you soar for a second before you fall, the momentum letting you fly before you break into a million bloody pieces when you hit the ground_ ) blood already darkening his white shirt, and then he tumbles backwards, Nadir lunging forwards to catch him before he hits the ground.

There’s chaos around them now, Christine and the Comte running towards them, the police inspector delivering an irate tirade against the policeman that had shot Erik. Nadir catches “ _take him alive_ ” and “ _what the hell were you thinking_ ” and then he hears the policeman’s “ _monster_ ” and stops listening, stops paying attention to anything except Erik, thin and cold beneath the wool and cotton and silk.

“Erik,” he whispers, “Erik, hey, stay with me, come on.”

Bloodshot golden eyes blink up at him, breaths coming in short, jagged gasps. Quickly Nadir pulls off his jacket and presses the thick cloth against the bullet wound.

“You,” Nadir says urgently in the Comte’s direction, too stressed for polite niceties. “You’re the Comte de Chagny, right?”

The man seems slightly shell-shocked, but the girl at his side nods. “And I’m Christine. Is he- is he going to be okay?”

Nadir glares at her. “Why do you care? You were just going to watch Gerard shoot him down like a _dog_ , but _now_ you care?”

The look on her face makes Nadir regret the words a little. He sighs. “I apologize-”

“You don’t have to,” she says firmly, and takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I don’t know who you are or how you knew to come, but I’m glad you did, and you’re right.”

Nadir stares up at her for another second, and then nods in acknowledgement and thanks. 

“My physician’s downstairs in the audience,” the Comte says quietly. “I hoped we wouldn’t need him, for anyone, but I can go get him. If you want.”

“Please do,” Nadir says, pulling Erik closer, doing his best to keep the other man warm and alive. 

“Go,” Christine says softly to the Comte. He presses a soft kiss to her lips and hands her his jacket, which she pulls on with a quiet thanks.

As soon as he’s gone she kneels down next to Nadir. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says quietly, almost questioningly.

“No, I don’t think we have,” Nadir agrees. “I’m Nadir Khan.”

She nods. “I’m Christine Daaé. He,” and here she looks down at Erik, “he taught me to sing.”

There’s a moment of silence between them as she brushes back the hair ( _still that beautiful deep russet, more than a decade later_ ) from his mask.

“He showed me his face,” she continues then. “he showed me his face, because I asked him to and told him I’d love him no matter what he looked like beneath the mask, but I couldn’t, and now-”

( _Now. Then. A thousand moments, and all Nadir can think is_ please, Erik, please keep breathing)

She looks down. “It’s my fault.”

Nadir presses harder on the wound, Erik shifting half-conscious beneath his hands, words slipping half-formed and slurring from his mouth. Nadir doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know what to say. Empty platitudes? _I’m sure it’s not your fault._ He doesn’t know what happened, can’t judge and sentence without evidence.

And then- “Nadir!” and there’s Rookheeya, wine-purple silk streaming out behind her in the wind as she picks her way across the smooth slopes of the roof. She looks beautiful, ethereal even, in the moonlight. Nadir manages a soft little smile for her and calls back “I’m okay!”

“No, you aren’t,” Rookheeya scolds. “Don’t lie to me, Nadir.”

Nadir looks down ( _even though, after all, he isn’t the one bleeding out on the roof of the opera house, isn’t wounded, isn’t in danger of not surviving the week_ ). “Sorry.”

Rookheeya smiles softly, and raises her eyebrow when she spots Christine. “Who’s this?”

“Christine Daaé,” Nadir replies and Rookheeya’s eyebrow practically escapes her face.

“I’m Rookheeya,” she says in Christine’s direction. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but really there’s too much blood around outside of people’s bodies for that to really be true.”

“Over here,” says the Comte a little bit away before anyone else can speak. 

He beckons for the physician, a short man with silvering hair, to go ahead of him. The man kneels down next to Erik, and Nadir shifts to allow him access. “Don’t take off the mask,” he cautions quickly, and the other man nods in acknowledgement, already concentrated on his patient.

“Nadir?” asks Gerard, and Nadir closes his eyes. Sighs. “Yes?”

“Is he-” and Gerard’s voice catches. He tries again- “Is he-”

“Alive?” Nadir supplies. “Yes. For now.”

A soft groan from Erik, and Nadir curls bloody fingers into his hair, soothing him. Gold eyes flicker under closed eyelids, eyelashes long and dark.

“How did it come to this, Gerard?” Nadir whispers, Rookheeya’s hand comforting on his back. “ _How_? What the hell happened to make us this broken?”

“I don’t know,” Gerard admits ( _eyes eerily similar to Erik’s, just missing the gold_ ). “I don’t know.”


End file.
